


It Doesn't Have to Stay This Way

by anna_batt



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Eventual Romance, F/M, I Don't Even Know, My First Fanfic, One-Sided Feyre Archeron/Tamlin, Side Mor/Andromache, Some angst, actually lots of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_batt/pseuds/anna_batt
Summary: It's Rhys's final year of college, and he's more than ready to leave. With his family by his side, he finally feels like the proper heir of Night Industries. And then, naturally, he meets Feyre Archeron. Confused, intrigued, and more than a little infatuated, he wants nothing more than to see who she is, beyond everything she hides behind. And she seems to want nothing more than for him to leave her alone.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Azriel, Feyre Archeron & Cassian, Feyre Archeron & Morrigan, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 44
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! My name is Anna, and this is my first ever attempt at writing fanfiction. I truly hope you all enjoy it. Please let me know if you like it, and feel free to leave constructive feedback :) I write for fun; I’m actually a molecular biology major in college. Anyway, there isn’t a whole lot of Feyre in this chapter, but she’s coming, I promise. I anticipate this to be a fairly short story, but if anyone reads this and has ideas of where they want it to go, I will try to incorporate them. Disclaimer: several plot points are quite common, but I have absolutely no intention of plagiarizing. All characters belong to the lovely Sarah J. Maas. Here we go:

Chapter 1: 

“Rhys! Over here!” Rhys rolls his eyes as his bubbly annoyance of a cousin waves him over to where his inner circle, as he liked to call them, stood. It is their last first day of college, and despite their familiarity with the Prythian campus, he doesn’t doubt that Cassian and Mor, at least, have lots of news to share already. Azriel and Amren are much quieter, but also much sharper; they, too, had probably noticed things that they would bring up in conversation soon. His family could never run out of things to talk about. 

Rhys sighs and walks over. As a senior, he is burnt out and ready to graduate, to start a job anywhere, even his father’s company. He hadn’t originally wanted to take over Night Industries despite his father’s constant heckling, but after his family had all agreed to join the various positions they were all well qualified for in the company with him, he agreed tiredly.

“Let’s go grab breakfast and talk in that cafe,” Mor suggests, waving at the small building near them. Rhys frowns; he had never seen it before. They normally hung out at a small pub called Rita’s closer to their apartment complex.

“It’s new. They opened it over summer break,” Azriel explains quietly, reading Rhys’s thoughts easily as usual. 

Rhys looks at Cassian, who has already started in the direction. “Don’t you have your first class in forty-five minutes?” 

Cass looks back and laughs, “As if I’ve ever given a damn. It’s an Arts class anyway, won’t matter if I’m a few minutes late.” 

“Let’s _go_ , sour puss. God what did the cafe ever do to you? I went there last week with Andy, and they had the _best_ sandwiches. And coffee. And everything.” Mor pulls him along by his arm. 

~oOo~

To Rhys’s surprise, it is not a regular cafe. A “Seat Yourself” sign greets them at the entrance, and he sees waiters and waitresses taking orders. 

“This will take too long, I’m leaving,” Amren informs them, spinning around on her heel. 

“No!” Mor insists, grabbing her arm. Amren’s gray eyes flash. Mor drops her arm immediately. “They have quick service--I swear you’ll be on time. Stay, you guys will love it!”

Amren scowls, muttering “they have got to be paying her to do this”, but walks over to a nearby table anyway. She sits down unceremoniously, and the rest follow. True to Mor’s word, a younger girl walks up to their table right away to take their order.

“Good morning,” she greets them quietly. “What can I get you all today?” Rhys looks up at her, and promptly forgets how to breathe. She is gorgeous. Her blue-gray eyes are trained on her writing pad, intent on avoiding eye contact, and her long brown hair is swept away from her face in a loose ponytail. She isn’t wearing a name tag, but her worn out apron is covered in small doodles. A crescent in the right corner. A mountain range across the bottom.

He snaps himself out of his daze, forcing himself to stop staring at her, and finds Cassian smirking at him. Rhys narrows his eyes at his brother and turns to Mor instead. 

Mor beams at the girl before rattling off their orders, “Three turkey paninis, one french toast, two mochas, and two iced caramel macchiatos. Thank you!” The girl's eyes flash anxiously as her hand struggles to keep up with Mor’s fast-paced speech. She writes in choppy, large lettering that Rhys finds he can’t even read from his upside-down vantage point. He glances at her and she, for the first time, meets his eyes, but quickly snaps her head to Mor, cheeks flushed. 

Her eyes are wide with panic and apology,and he finds himself, inexplicably, wanting to help her. “I um, I-- I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch that last part, I’m sorry,” she stammers. 

Mor throws her head back and laughs loudly, and the girl flinches. “No worries! I’m the one who should apologize, I talk way too fast sometimes. Two caramel macchiatos,” Mor repeats a little slower. The girl nods and scribbles it across her paper.

“Thank you, I’ll just, be right back with the food.” She picks up their tri fold menus, jerking back a little when Cassian winks at her. Mor furrows her brows, mirroring Rhys’s own expression, as the girl hurries back toward the kitchen, picking up dirty dishes from several tables along the way. 

They all look at each other, uncomfortably aware of the girl’s nervous demeanor, but unsure of what to say. 

Just as Mor opens her mouth, they hear a loud crash from the kitchen, and several patrons look up from their meals, annoyed. The place is silent for a couple seconds, and then chatter resumes until they hear a shrill sounding voice. “Archeron, _watch_ where you're going for gods' sake. I did not hire you to make my own job more difficult. All any of us have been doing since you came is cleaning up after your messes. Get out, today is the busiest day of the year, I can’t have you in the way, Feyre.”

There’s a soft protest of “I’ll clean it up right away, I’m sorry, I--” and Rhys realizes it’s the same girl who was serving them. Feyre. Feyre Archeron. 

“NOT today, Feyre, I don’t have time for this. Work the night shift or don’t work at all.” 

Everyone returns to their meals once again, and the girl rushes out of the cafe, still in her apron, clutching a tattered gray bag to her chest. A pompous-looking redhead with a pen in her tight bun follows her out and marches up to their table. 

“I am really sorry about that. Your server was our newest employee, and she has not been doing well. Unfortunately she dropped two of your plates, but we’ll get fresh sandwiches out to you soon, on the house. Are you all able to wait?” 

Cassian checks his watch discreetly, and shakes his head slightly at Rhys. Amren has already stood up. “It’s really not an issue,” Rhys promises. “Thanks for the offer, but we have to get to class.” 

“Please tell Feyre that it wasn’t a problem,” Mor adds, and the woman shakes her head a bit, but says nothing as Mor continues, “Thank you! We’ll be back someday soon, we’re sorry we can’t stay.” 

Then they all follow Amren and Cassian out. Rhys, Mor, and Azriel walk toward their Business Economics class together in silence. 

Azriel is the first to speak. “I’ve seen her before. I think she’s an Arts student.” Rhys’s interest peaks despite himself, and dammit, they both notice right away.. 

“A senior?” asks Mor. 

“No, an underclassmen. Sophomore, if I remember correctly,” says Azriel. 

All Rhys can think about during class is her beautiful eyes, her skittish personality, her beautiful drawings, and her illegible script. When class ends, and he can’t remember a word from the lecture, he curses himself for being a creep. 

~oOo~

“Let’s have a movie night!” Mor speaks over the bustling noise of the food court at lunch, as they set down their trays. _“Bryaxis II_ just came out, it’ll be perfect. Maybe Cass’ll piss his pants again!” Azriel lets out a quiet chuckle, scooting one chair over as Andromache joins them. 

“I heard that,” Cass hollers from his place in the long line, earning him dirty looks from the students around him. Mor flips him off with a smile, slinging an arm around Andy and kissing her cheek. 

Rhys smiles. After Mor’s fallout with her own bigoted family over her homosexuality, he was glad she and Andy found each other and acceptance of their relationship at Prythian University. 

“I am in, as long as it is not at my place. You slobs stay out of my apartment,” Amren deadpans, setting her own tray down next to Rhys’, her bloodred nails clinking on the table. Her large grey ring with the black and white circles bears an eerie resemblance to an eye. Rhys shudders and peels his own eyes away from her hands.

“Come over to my place,” he offers, and Cassian whoops. “But I swear to all the gods that be, if any of you even go near my fridge, I’m kicking you all out in seconds. Bring takeout and snacks. I literally starve the day after our movie nights because you fools eat all of my food.” Rhys glares at Cassian and Mor, who flips her blonde ponytail over her shoulder and pouts at Rhys. He rolls his eyes, and turns to Azriel, who stands up with his tray. 

“Ready, brother?” Azriel nods and they dump their trash and head out to the afternoon class they also happen to share: Communications. They sit through the lecture, dutifully taking notes. It’s one of the few classes that Rhys actually enjoys. The subject intrigues him, a class laying the foundation to speak effectively. Unlike Business Econ, it’s a skill he’ll always be able to use. Eight long pages of notes, and two hours later, they are dismissed. Rhys shakes out his sore hands. 

“I don’t know why you insist on handwriting them. Typing is so much faster,” Azriel says in his cool voice, bringing up their age-old argument. Rhys shrugs. He likes physically writing things. It’s calming in a way, familiar. And he has nice writing, unlike Cassian and Amren, who resort to computers due to their unwieldy penmanship. 

“Mr. Night, would you stay back a moment?” their professor looks up at them from her desk. Azriel murmurs that he’ll be right outside. Rhys assents nervously. Ever since their freshman Calculus professor, Amarantha...no, he wouldn’t go there. He approaches her slowly.

“Professor,” Rhys greets. “What can I do for you?”

The woman sighs and leans back in her chair, smoothing out her short black hair. “I have a freshman,” she begins. “In my English 31 class. And she...well, this really is confidential,” she gives him a warning look,and Rhys nods, wondering where this is going. “But she’s failing. And she’s here on scholarship. I keep telling her she needs to get a tutor, and I don’t know if she has, but her grades aren’t improving. She won’t come to office hours, and frankly, I don’t have the time to meet her one on one given the research project I’ve taken on. And you’ve been doing so well in my class, and I talked to Thesan, and he said you passed his Freshman English course with top marks, so I just wanted to ask you a favor.”

Rhys nods slowly. “You want me to tutor this student?”

She rubs a tired hand over her face. “If you have the time and interest, of course. It would be a huge favor to me. Just an hour or two each week. I’ll offer a two percent grade raise to you as at the end of the semester if you need it then, which I doubt. She’s a bright girl, really, and I just don’t want her to lose her scholarship. Failing this class would send her home. She just needs at least a C.” His professor looks at him, almost pleading.

“Sure,” Rhys agrees easily, despite knowing the extra credit won’t do him any good. He doesn’t have much on his plate this year anyway. He’s fulfilled nearly all of his credits; he’s just passing time until graduation. Like Amren, except she just added a minor to her degree, true to her workaholic fashion. 

“Thank you Rhysand,” the woman gushes, looking immensely relieved. “I really do appreciate it. I’ll tell her I found her a tutor next class, and email you her contact information. Please don’t share it with anyone else.”

Rhys agrees and bids her a good night, walking out the door. 

“So, what was that all about?” Azriel inquires quietly. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah it’s all good. She just wants me to tutor some girl in her english class.” Azriel nods, pulling out his phone. 

“Okay. See you tonight,” Azriel tells Rhys, clapping him on the shoulder before walking toward the parking lot. Rhys watches his brother get into his car before turning toward the library. Might as well check out the books listed on his syllabus before the library copies run out. 

~oOo~

Adjusting his new textbooks in his hands, Rhys walks out of the library, humming softly to himself. He sees Cassian duck behind a nearby pillar ahead of him, no doubt to jump out and scare him somehow. Rhys groans. Sure enough, as he’s about to pass the pillar, Cassian pops out, then quickly jumps back with a cry as Rhys slams the book into Cassian’s chest. 

“Fine, fine,” Cassian grumbles,rubbing his chest. “I get it. Don’t play stupid pranks. You didn’t have to fucking shove your books into my abs.” Rhys snorts. “I was just coming to ask if you wanted to swing by Target to get snacks for tonight.

Rhys lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Cass, that was literally your job. I provide the couch, you provide the snacks.”

“Well, yes, but you don’t actually have to DO anything. Since Mor’s bringing dinner, Az is renting the movie, and Amren is, well , coming, the honorable thing to do would be for us to buy snacks together,” Cassian proclaims melodramatically. 

“Allowing you all in my apartment is more than fair contribution, but fine. Let’s go.” They walk toward Rhys’s sedan, and head off toward the store.

~oOo~

“Okay, so is that everything?” Rhys asks his brother, who has grabbed a couple water filled squishy toys and is juggling with them, much to the delight of several small children, and the annoyance of their parents. 

“ _Cassian_.” He snaps, snatching one of the airborne toys breaking his adopted brother’s concentration. 

“Ummm, did we get popcorn?” asks Cassian, tossing the toys back onto the shelf. Rhys nods. “Sourpatch, Skittles, Kisses, and Life Savers? Oh! And whipped cream?” Rhys makes a face but nods. Cassian sprays the stuff right into his mouth for reasons beyond him. Cassian checks the cart, sifting through the cup noodles, chips, and other goodies Rhys scooped in for his insatiable family. It was really just Mor and Cass, he mused. Amren and Azriel were mostly human, at least in this regard. 

“I think that’s good,” Cassian informs him, and Rhys pushes the cart toward checkout. “Let’s go then. It’s already 5:30. And it’s impossible to know when Mor will decide to show up. I can’t have her at home unsupervised.” Cassian follows him, ogling at the bikini magazines, and grabbing a pack of gum. 

Rhys rolls his eyes and pulls out his card. Despite his harassing Cassian about paying for stuff, Rhys knows he’s easily the richest out of his family. Mor, like him, is an heiress, but after coming out, her parents refused to give her a dime. She earned from her side gig doing online fashion designing, which she spent on extravagant clothing, donating what remained from her budget each month to a women’s domestic abuse charity. Amren had some money too, but from where, Rhys had no idea. For all he knew, she was a hired assassin. It would explain a lot. Still, she wasn’t as rich as he was. Cassian earned a bit from teaching self defense and kickboxing at the local gym, and Rhys often joined in, but unlike Mor and Rhys with their wardrobes, except for his monstrous appetite, he was very low maintenance. Azriel was the smartest out of all of them and easily made a good amount of money web designing and working on cyber security for several businesses in Velaris. He’ll be doing the same at Night Industries. 

Lost in thought, Rhys hadn’t noticed how far they had moved up in line, until Cassian nudged him. He looks up and his jaw almost drops when he sees that their cashier is none other than Feyre Archeron, the same girl who had taken their orders at the cafe that morning. _A second job?_ Rhys wonders. And University. How she’s even standing is beyond Rhys. The days he works at the gym after classes with Cassian leave him with a bone-weary exhaustion. He can’t imagine heading from one job to class to another job. Cassian elbows him again and Rhys stops staring and starts helping his brother unload the cart. He hears her bid the customers right before them in line a good evening, and looks up at her. 

“Oh--hello,” she blurts, clearly equally surprised to see them. She opens her mouth again, but closes it quickly and scans the items quietly. Rhys wonders briefly if he should bring up what happened in the morning and make sure she’s okay, but then she asks, “Would you like bags?” 

Cassian nods. “Yes please.” She flashes him a nervous smile and starts bagging their things efficiently. Rhys notices that her hands are rough and calloused, and wonders if she ever had to do other kinds of work--there’s always illegal construction gigs on the outskirts of Velaris. He hopes not.

Cassian reaches in to help her with the bagging and she looks up, alarmed, “You don’t have to do that,” she informs him, flushing.

“I insist,” he gives her an easy smile, and she relaxes a little but her cheeks are still bright as they work together while Rhys pays and signs. 

“Have a nice night,” she tells them, then turns to the night customer. Rhys loads their bags in the cart and they start heading toward the exit.

“Archeron, you working the night shift too?” they hear from behind them. Rhys slows down turns to see his classmate, Lucien standing near Feyre, his hair in his signature long ponytail, so bright that it almost matches his Target vest. He’s never particularly liked Lucien, but he’s never disliked him either. The redhead has always seemed like a bit of a wallflower to Rhys. 

“Yes, just tonight though,” Feyre tells him. “Alis needed a cover and I said I’d do it.”

“You work too hard,” Lucien sighs. Rhys finds himself nodding subconsciously, ignoring Cassian’s teasing glance. 

“Well, money’s tight,” is the last thing they hear from her as they exit through the double doors.

~oOo~

“Not bad,” Andy declares through her yawn as the credits roll, the pizza boxes littered on the couch and table around them. Mor is asleep, her head on Andy’s lap. She snores softly as Andy runs her fingers through her girlfriend’s hair. Amren stands quickly.

“It was awful,” she cuts sharply. “I am going home.” 

“You said that last time, Tiny. Why’d you watch the sequel, huh?” Cassian goads, always ready for a chance to mess with the terrifying woman. 

Amren glares. “To see if you would scream again. It was great blackmail last time, wasn’t it?” 

Cassian gulps and Azriel chuckles quietly. Rhys shakes his head smiling, sure that there’s an interesting story there.

Rhys stands up and stretches. “Well, any of you who want to are welcome to stay. The spare bedroom’s open, someone can take the couch, and I have a sleeping bag in the closet.” Amren is already at the door, but Andy pushes Mor off her and tells her to go sleep on the bed. 

“Thanks, Rhys, but I really should go too” says Andy. 

“Noo,” Mor whines, still face down on the couch, grabbing her girlfriend with a sleepy arm. “Stay.” Andy looks down at her, fondly. 

“Alright, then we’ll be in the bedroom,” Andy informs them, then pulls Mor’s arm until she falls off the couch and onto the carpet below. 

“Never mind,” comes Mor’s muffled voice. “Please leave.” Andy chuckles and whacks her with a pillow. 

“Get _up_ or I’m leaving you here all night.” 

Mor groans and stands rubbing her bottom. She wishes everyone a slurred goodnight, then heads into the room, followed by Andy. 

Azriel, who had been brushing his teeth in Rhys’s bathroom emerges and unrolls the sleeping back onto the carpet, tucking himself in after quietly thanking Rhys. Rhys smiles at his favorite brother. Certainly the more well-mannered one, at least. The other one’s hulking form has taken Mor’s place on the couch. Cassian snores loudly, one arm hanging off the side. Azriel and Rhys share an exasperated look with each other, and then Rhys makes his way to his room. He stops to look at the photo wall that covers the right side of the hallway, smiling a little sadly as he brushes his fingers over the picture of his mom kneeling behind Aria with her arms wrapped around her small frame as they both laugh. His sweet mother and sister, two angels taken away from him too soon. His smile only grows as he glances at the picture of his mother hugging a miniature version of himself, Azriel and Cassian so many years ago. That was around the time that she had taken Azriel in. The boy at school with the scarred hands whose mom and dad never came to pick him up from school. Older boys--his brothers, Rhys learned later--always hung around him, shoving him, and forcing him to smoke. His mother had taken one look and requested custody for neglect. Two years before that it had been Cassian. She had taken baby Aria to the park at night to make her stop crying, and Rhys had tagged along. Cass had been there laying on the bench, shivering. Rhys had offered him his jacket, but his mother did one better. She held her hand out to Cassian and told her to come with him. She argued with her husband and took the case to court. Turns out Cassian was an orphan, so the judge granted Rhys’ parents custody, and just like that, Rhys had a brother.

Rhys’s eyes fill with tears at the memories. He missed his mother. She and his sister had been the brightest lights in his life. They still were, of course. But his sister would have been seventeen today if not for the crash. Instead she would be forever six. His mom and dad had never gotten along, and he’d always been his mother's boy. She was gentle and kind while he was harsh and unforgiving. She was the balm to his spite, and soothed while he raged. Sometimes after the crash when he was a stupid brooding teenager, Rhys had wished his father had died in the crash instead. But as prideful and strict as his dad was, Rhys would never truly want him to die that way. So he shoved down those thoughts, gliding his fingers against the rest of the photos. Him and Mor playing at the beach. The four of them at the local fair. Having dinner at Sevinda’s diner, their honorary aunt. Toasting with apple cider at high school graduation.

He wipes off a lone tear when he reaches the end, entering his bedroom quietly. After his professor Amarantha’s sexual abuse all throughout freshman year, his family, and the tiny aspiring law student, Amren, were the only reason he made it through alive. So many times, he stood on the balcony of his apartment, wondering what would happen, who would give a single fuck if he jumped. But they did. And they showed it every moment, even when he pushed them away, even when they didn’t know. He loved them. And when he finally told them, they ruined her. She was out of the University within two weeks, and he hadn’t heard anything of her for a year, until Amren informed him she had died from drug abuse. The bitch deserved it. 

Rhys sighs, trying to think of happy things instead of the dark hole he had finally climbed out of. He fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket, tosses it on the bed, then quickly strips into his boxers, sliding on sleep shorts, and heading to the bathroom to brush. 

He splashes cold water on his face, and heads back to bed, letting go of the tension in his muscles, and melting into the matters. He grabs for his phone charger in the dark, and plugs it in, a notification lighting his screen as he does. 

_1 new message. Open mail._ He unlocks his phone, and opens the mail app. It’s an email from his Communications Professor, Miryam. 

**Subject: Peer Tutoring for my Freshman Student**

Dear Rhysand, 

Thank you so much once again for your help. I spoke to my student, Feyre Archeron..

Rhys drops his phone on the bed and rubs his face. Of _fucking_ course it would be her. The one girl he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind. The one he had been thinking of, no _seeing_ , all day. The one with the beautiful blur gray eyes and long brown hair, and small drawings. The one... Oh gods, he groaned. He was in so much trouble. He picked the phone up and kept reading.

I spoke to my student, Feyre Archeron over the phone today, and she agreed to meet you. She might seem hesitant at first, but she is very grateful for the help you are providing her. She requested to meet you at the school library tomorrow at 5 pm. I know it’s a Saturday, but if possible, please meet her then and figure out a schedule. Here is her number: 590-950-0590.

Best Regards,

Professor Miryam Wineteer

Communications, English 31, English 32

miryamwinteteer@prythian.edu.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back with another chapter! I'm feeling inspired and now know what direction I'm going to take with this story, so it may be a little longer and more action-packed than the 5-6 chapters I'd originally planned. It'll also have its fair share of angst coming up soon :) Hopefully you all want to stick around that long. Feel free to drop a comment with feedback (or compliments); comments always make my day! Again, all characters belong to Sarah J. Maas. Hope you all are safe and doing well! (P.S. editing is not my strong suit since I always want to post as soon as I finish, so I have my fingers crossed that this chapter makes sense haha).

Rhys rushes through the central quad muttering “excuse me” and shoving his way through the throngs of students. Why the _fuck_ are there so many people here on a Saturday? He curses under his breath, hefting his bag higher onto his shoulder and picking up the pace. Thanks to Mor, he is now 20 minutes late instead of the five extra minutes he spent looking for his wallet. Somehow, she had locked herself out of her apartment, and could not _possibly_ spend an hour at the coffee shop and wait for Andy to get back from her internship, so he had rushed over to her place to let her back in with his spare key, breaking every speed limit and running several red lights along the way. Oops. Whatever. If no one noticed, it never happened. 

He reaches the library, panting, and takes a second to collect his breath, knowing the librarian will be severely unhappy if he enters the pin drop silence sounding like a dog. 

He pulls open the door, holding it open for a young lady pushing another’s wheelchair, a full cast on her right leg, and a boy next to them carrying their books. Rhys follows them in, scanning the room for Feyre, praying she didn’t leave yet. It’s 5:21. If his father was here, Rhys would be getting an earful about how rude it is to make someone wait this long. He deflates as he walks further, peeking into the computer lab, and the back section, even though he didn’t think she would be there. Just as he’s turning around to leave, though, he sees her at the far table in the main hall. Her head is bowed over a notebook as her right arm tugs at her hair tightly in frustration. Her left hand scribbles something in the book. She’s wearing the same worn hoodie that she had on at Target yesterday, and loose faded jeans that are several inches too short on her. Still, she looks stunning, and he takes a moment to admire her long brown tresses cascading down her back, and makeup free yet flawless face leaning on the hand that grips her hair. He watches her another second, then approaches her slowly. 

She looks up, snapping shut her notebook, which, he observes, is covered in doodles, when he stops next to her table. “You again?” she narrows her eyes. “What do you want?”

“I’m your tutor,” Rhys responds, raising his arms at her tone. He hadn’t really expected her to bite his head off.

“You?” she raises her eyebrows, looking almost defensive. “Want to explain why you’re--” she pauses to check the clock, “twenty-four minutes late, then?” 

He frowns, “There’s no need to be rude, Feyre, Darling. We got along yesterday.”

She flushes. “I am NOT your darling,” she snaps quietly. “And yesterday, we had to get along. I was at work. Now, I have no such obligation. Who are you anyway?”

He smirks at her obvious discomfort. “Rhysand, but only my enemies call me that, Darling. I go by Rhys.” He winks and she scowls.

“Fine, whatever.” She fidgets, clearly embarrassed by the whole situation. He doesn’t blame her. “Well, she probably already told you I’m failing. And, uh, I need to pass.”

He grins teasingly, about to make a smartass comment to bring back her spitfire demeanor, but she speaks again, glaring stubbornly at the table.

“Do I um, need to pay you for this?” She asks, yanking at her hoodie strings.

Rhys opens and closes his mouth a couple times, completely floored that that’s what she was worried about. Clearly, Miryam did not give her enough information about this. And clearly, she doesn’t know him at all if she thinks he wants money from her. Most people on campus knew him. Meaning, they knew he was rich. Too often at parties, girls would grind themselves against him, hoping for who knows what. A fancy date? A job? Guys would whisper about him in the halls like they were in fucking middle school or something. His brothers found it hilarious. So, he didn’t want to sound completely narcissistic, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t at least a little surprised that she seemed to have no idea who he was. Feyre was still looking personally offended by the table when he snapped out of his egotistical reverie. 

“No,” he says gently, but firmly trying to catch her eye. “Of course you don’t.” Then he smirks, waving a hand toward himself with unnecessary swagger. “I’m all yours for free, Darling.” He’s been hanging around Cassian too much.

She rolls her eyes and huffs but looks immensely relaxed nonetheless. 

“So,” Rhys ventures. “What exactly shall I help you with?” He reaches for her notebook to open it, and she snatches it away quickly. 

“No!” she blurts, flustered when she gets dirty looks from nearby students. Rhys raises his eyebrows. “Not that. We’re, um, supposed to be reading this novel. And, I don’t really understand it. Could you just help me with that?”

Rhys gives her a curious look, but then shrugs. He thought he’d be helping her with writing, but he’s here for her; he’ll do what she needs from him. “What book?” he asks finally.

“Beowulf,” she tells him, sliding the copy over. He picks it up and leafs through it, nodding absentmindedly. He has read it through several times given his obsession with classic literature. 

“I remember the story. What have you read so far?” 

She looks away, embarrassed. “I actually haven’t gotten very far. Just a chapter in, barely. We’re supposed to finish it this week, but it’s...it’s really hard for me,” she admits, swallowing. He just manages to keep his jaw from falling. No wonder she’s failing. He can tell how uncomfortable she is, though, so he says nothing. He just nods like it’s no problem, though internally, he’s freaking out a little. There’s only seven weeks to go in the semester. And if they’re finishing this book now, then they’ll start the next unit in another week at the latest. He takes a deep breath. 

“Well, what are you having trouble with exactly?” Rhys asks her, setting the book down and making eye contact. She shrugs a little. He frowns. What could be keeping her from just reading the book? 

“Can you just read the last few pages of chapter one out loud for me and then summarize what happened? Then we can move toward Chapter two, and maybe discuss some common themes in the book?” She’s instantly shaking her head, stammering nervously.

“Feyre,” Rhys says, concerned now. “Are you okay?” She hesitates, then softly murmurs her assent. He opens the book to the last page of chapter one. “How about we start here?” 

She takes the book from him and squints. “The...master....slipped....slithered?” she sounded out the words carefully, her cheeks becoming redder with each one. “into his den.” Rhys glances at the book. _The monster slithered into his bed_. She’s dylexic, he realizes. 

He nods encouragingly, “Keep going,” he pushes, opening up her notebook as she glowers at the page. The writing is nearly illegible, full of misspellings, and each word takes up two or three lines in length instead of one. She must have been typing all her assignments if the professor hadn’t noticed this. He falters, unsure of how to broach the subject. Does she even know that she’s dyslexic? Or is she aware and just too ashamed to tell him?

When she finishes her next sentence, she looks at him for validation, and he smiles nervously at her. “Feyre...has anyone ever told you, that you might be dyslexic?”

Her shoulders slump. “No, but I always did horrible in school. I can’t read or write properly, and when they tried teaching me in elementary classes, I never could, so they just gave up and started giving me low marks. They said I was too slow. I just stopped going when I turned 15, and started working instead. I never officially dropped out, which is how I was able to apply here. The only class I would go to was art, so I just submitted my portfolio, and somehow, Prythian accepted me.”

Rhys stares. Not only is he surprised that she shared so much with him, but also because Prythian is generally a school for the rich. For her to have applied as a fluke shot and gotten in _with a scholarship_...she must have more talent in her pinky finger than the entire rest of the student body combined. 

“Wow,” is all he can come up with at the end. “Well, don’t worry,” he continues as nonchalantly as he can manage. Prythian isn’t going to lose you that easily then. Let’s get your English grade back up.” 

Her cheeks become tinged with red again, as she looks at him, her eyes conveying a level of gratitude that makes his decision instantly worth it. It’s not trust, yet, but...it’s a start. 

He spends the rest of two hours getting to know how her brain works, slowly teaching her how to write and read large-print books he finds on some nearby shelves. Her dedication is unwavering and so is his patience, but she’s still constantly embarrassed. He wishes he could help her, but ultimately he realizes that the only thing he can do is to avoid showing any condescension, so he does just that and tries his best to ignore her obvious discomfort.

Eventually, the sun sets, and he decides to call it a day. He’s supposed to go to Mor’s for dinner anyway. 

“Thank you, Rhysand,” she murmurs as she stands up to pack her bags. 

“Rhys,” he corrects her automatically.

“Thank you Rhys,” she amends, avoiding his eyes. “I, uh, really appreciate this. Do you think, that we could maybe meet next week at the same time.?”

“When’s your paper on Beowulf due?” he asks suspiciously. 

“Thursday,” she confesses after only a moment’s hesitation.

“Well, then, Darling, we must meet before that, don’t you think?” he raises an eyebrow at her in question.

She looks guilty. “That’s--well, that’s really nice of you to offer, but I work from 4 to 8 pm all week, and in the morning on Monday and Wednesday and I really wouldn’t want to intrude upon you any later than that.”

Rhys manages to keep his jaw from falling open. He knew she worked two jobs, but he’d never met another student that worked such long hours on a daily basis. 

“Tomorrow evening, then?” he suggests.

She looks deeply distressed by the prospect. “You really don’t have to give up your Sunday evening for me, too. We can just meet next week, I’ll figure something out for the essay.”

“What, you mean you’ll turn in another shitty paper like you’ve been doing this whole time and risk your scholarship? Clearly, if you lose this scholarship now, you won’t be able to stay here. And then where will you be? Face it, Feyre, you need my help,” he snaps without thinking, regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth. He had only been trying to get her to accept his help. Somewhere along the line he made himself a hero. He really was turning into his father--a rich, entitled, asshole. Just like the rumors said. 

Her features morph instantly from apologetic to furious, her blue eyes flashing coldly. “You don’t know anything about me, Rhysand, so don’t go on parading around like you do. I said I’ll figure out something for the essay and I will _._ I don’t _need_ anything from you. And it’s none of your _fucking_ business what I turn in. It’s my, essay, my grade, and my scholarship, stay the fuck out of it. I should have never agreed to this.” she seethes, grabbing her canvases and bags that he had been about to offer to help with, and rushing away from him. 

He stands there like a total idiot for a moment, then runs after her, slinging his own bag on his shoulder, “Feyre, wait!” he calls, getting a dirty look from the librarian as he slides through the closing door after her. “I didn’t mean it, I’m so sorry!” 

She’s already down the hall though, struggling to maneuver through the groups of students while carrying her large paintings, and he’s almost reached her, when a younger boy, probably late to class, barrels into him sideways. The boy falls, his books scattering across their feet. Rhys curses, but he’s not enough of a jerk to leave the kid there like that, so he bends down and hurriedly scoops up the books, depositing the stack next to the boy, and apologizing over his shoulder to the bewildered underclassmen as he resumes his chase. But as he reaches the end of the hall, he realizes he has no idea which way she went. Then he catches her out of the corner of his eye, in the small parking lot a couple hundred feet to his right. She’s loading her stuff onto a city bus, and his face falls as he realizes he won’t reach her time. 

He turns back and heads toward his car, berating himself the whole time for being such a class-A bastard. He’d never been so loose with his words before. Cassian was the one without any filter. He’d just so desperately wanted to help her that he didn’t even realize what he was saying. She must hate him now. And he didn’t blame her one bit. 

~oOo~

When he enters Mor’s apartment, the table is already set, and his family is fooling around in the living room. Mor is arm wrestling Azriel, Cassian is cooing “now who’s a good girl” over and over again to Mor’s new lab, scratching behind her ears, and Amren is scrolling through her phone on the loveseat. Only Andy is absent, but she emerges from the bathroom a moment later, wiping her hands on her jeans, her short brown hair curled impeccably. 

“Rhys!” she calls. “Glad you could make it, we were just about to start without you,” she informs him, apology in her tone. Rhys waves her off. 

Cassian whoops, grabbing Rhys into a tight headlock without warning, and Rhys scowls at him when he lets him go, smoothing his mussed shirt and hair. 

“The food smells great, Andy,” he compliments her, looking pointedly at Mor, who has never cooked anything decent in her life. Andy beams as Mor sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Thank you! Shall we start?”

“Absolutely!” Cassian jumps into his designated seat, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starving.”

Azriel rolls his eyes, pulling out a chair next to Mor and watching her serve herself generous heaps of everything. 

“Where were you anyway?” Mor asks through a mouth full of chicken marsala. 

“Uh...library,” Rhys says, picking up his glass and taking a drink of water to cover his face. He really didn’t want to talk about this, especially not with Mor with his entire family watching him carefully. She would flip out if she knew what happened. Mor was always lecturing him about his manners, and how “you’re not supposed to say that” and “that was offensive, stupid”. He’d never hear the end of what a horrible person he was. And she didn’t need to tell him; he already knew. 

“Sure you were,” Mor sing songs, smiling in a way that lets him know she’s fully aware he’s not telling her something. “And what were we working on in the library? Because I know for a fact you don’t have any work due.”

At this, Azriel perks up, too, no doubt remembering how Rhys had been pulled back after class by Professor Wineteer. 

“Tutoring someone,” he mutters. Mor looks delighted. 

“And who, pray tell, might your stunning tutee be?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

“Yo, wait a minute,” Cass interjects. “Aren’t you always lecturing us about not being sexist? Why do you automatically assume it’s a girl?”

“First of all,” Mor patronizes, “‘Stunning’ is a gender neutral adjective.”

Cassian opens his mouth to object, but Mor raises a warning finger, causing Andy to chuckle. “And second of all, I’m not _assuming_ it’s a girl, Honey. I _know_ it is.” Rhys groans, dropping his head to the table next to his plate. Cassian looks at him in disbelief. Mor smirks.

“Rhys is only this reluctant to share what he’s been doing with me when it’s about a pretty girl,” she confides to their family conspiratorially. Even Amren looks amused by his misery. 

“So, Rhys, who was it?” she quirks her eyebrows suggestively. “Was it just tutoring, or did you all have some extra fun in the--”

“Mor,” he moans. “For the love of the gods, stop.”

Azriel pats his arm sympathetically, but Cassian grins like a fiend.

“Come on, Rhysie,” he mocks in a sweet voice. “You can tell us.” Rhys sighs. He is surrounded by insatiable fucking newscasters. He might as well just tell them the truth.

“It was Feyre. The girl from the cafe yesterday. And it went horribly so let’s just drop it. She isn’t going to want to see me again.”

“Ohhhh Feyre!! She was cute,” Mor muses. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure it wasn’t _that_ bad. Even you can only mess things up so much,” she consoles unhelpfully. Amren loses interest in their interrogation turned therapy session, and begins a conversation about Andy’s nursing program with her. 

Slowly, the rest of his family sparks up other discussions as well, unaware of Rhys wallowing in his self-loathing for the way he spoke to Feyre.

~oOo~

Later that night, he lies in bed, staring at his phone. He has a new message drafted and his finger hovers over the send button: 

Hello, Feyre, Darling. This is Rhys. Please accept my sincere apologies for the way I spoke to you tonight. I truly didn’t intend to offend you; I know you don’t need me to succeed. Still, I would like to help you, so do reach out to me at any time if you would like any assistance at all with your essay. It was a pleasure meeting you. Good night :)

He hesitates, deletes the “Darling”, then presses the send button before he can second guess himself again.

He tosses and turns until his text alert goes off, around an hour later. He’s instantly grabbing and unlocking his phone to check what she said.

Hello, Rhysand. Thank you for your help today. I can do the rest of the class on my own. Good bye

His heart sinks. He places the phone back on his bedside table, rolling over and staring at the dark wall until his body forces him to sleep.

~oOo~

Rhys waits impatiently at the door for Amren and Cassian to come out so they can meet Mor, Azriel, and Andy at Sevinda’s for lunch. Their class should have ended ten minutes ago, and he can hear from behind the door. It’s a Still Life class that they both had to take to fulfill their elective requirement, since all the popular classes were full, and cleanup always goes long after the bell. Another five minutes later, the first two students step out, and a steady stream of students follow after. Rhys blows out a puff of air, trying to peer into the classroom to see where Cassian and Amren are. 

What he’s not expecting to see is Cassian standing next to Feyre, laughing and joking about something at her easel along the far wall of the room. His feet automatically carry him to the door, but just as he’s about to step in, a strict voice greets him.

“Mr. Night,” the notoriously unsmiling art professor greets him, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are my rules about non-students entering the room?”

Rhys gulps, and retracts his foot. “Sorry, Sir. I was just coming in to see if you needed any help?”

The man raises an eyebrow, severely unimpressed. Cassian and Feyre look up to watch the disruption, Cassian smiling widely, and Feyre looking perturbed. 

“I’m coming, Rhys,” he says, ruffling Feyre’s hair as he bids her goodbye. Rhys frowns. Of course she likes his brother better than him. He grabs his bag and heads out the door, and they’re halfway down the hall in silence, when Cassian curses. 

“Shit, I knew I was forgetting something,” he complains. “I gotta go grab Tiny’s Research homework. She’s out sick today and asked me to collect everything and drop it off. Of course, I’m giving it to Azriel to take to her, because she’ll maim me if I’m anywhere within a ten foot radius of her house, but I should at least go get it. Don’t wait for me, I’ll meet you there!”

Rhys flips off his brother’s retreating form. He waited twenty minutes for Cassian and now he’s not even coming. Bastard. 

Then he sees Feyre exit the classroom, and against his head’s warnings, his heart gives a little flutter. She has her hair in a long braid down her back today. He kind of wants to take it out and run his hands through her hair. He imagines his lips on hers, and-- _Stop it._ He scolds himself. He frowns when he realizes she’s wearing the same too-short jeans as last time, and another faded sweatshirt. It’s nearly a hundred degrees outside, _much_ too hot for that outfit. He also observes in this moment how uncharacteristically skinny she is. It’s not just like she’s dieting, it’s like she’s starving herself. He tries to put his mind at ease, reasoning that she must find her classrooms cold, and is just naturally someone who burns their fat too fast. 

Unwilling to let her go a second time, he calls, “Feyre!”

She turns, and so do some other surrounding students. Of course they do. Anyone he talks to is an instant point of interest on this campus. She pinches her eyebrows together, looking mortified. 

“What do you want?” she hisses at him, retreating when he steps closer. “I-I’ve got to get to class.”

“Wait!" he tells her desperately as she turns back around. She waits, tilting her head half toward him but doesn’t turn her body, and that’s when he realizes he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Feyre, I’m sorry. I don’t why I said that, any of it.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she asks bitterly. “Stupid Feyre who doesn’t know how to read. How will she pass her classes without anyone taking pity on her?”

“No, it’s not Feyre. I didn’t mean it, please believe me. None of that is true,” he begs, not sure why he even cares so much whether or not she likes him. No one else does, anyway.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Rhysand,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “People keep trying to help me and I don’t know why. So just, please, stay the hell away from me.”

She lifts a trembling hand to wipe a tear that slid down as she spoke, and when she does, her sleeve rides up, revealing a line of fading bruises in the shape of fingers.

And then, before he can say anything more, she’s gone, leaving him standing there in a stunned silence. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Hope you all enjoy this chapter :) There will be Feysand very soon, I promise. I've also decided to just keep this story short as it's my first, likely 5 (maybe 6) chapters. Have a lovely weekend and an even lovelier week ahead. Stay safe and follow community guidelines, please.

Rhys watches Cassian slam down another shot, laughing rowdily and pumping his fist as Mor finishes hers only a second later. The music reverberates around them in the cozy house...too cozy if you ask Rhys, with the sweaty bodies, and _way_ too many people surrounding him, swaying along to the trashy party song, booze sloshing out of their solo cups. 

He frowns down at his own empty cup and muscles his way to the kitchen to get a new drink. As he passes along he sees Azriel talking quietly with a pretty girl with chocolate hair and hazel eyes on the porch, away from prying eyes. Well, except his, he supposes. He smirks at Azriel when their eyes meet, and Az narrows his eyes at him in warning. Rhys raises his hands good-naturedly and continues toward the kitchen. Cassian’s home isn’t really that big; it shouldn’t be this hard to get from the living room to the kitchen. 

A girl in a slinky hot pink dress and makeup caking her face approaches him right as he reaches the entrance of the kitchen. Rhys suppresses his groan and towards her. 

“Hey, handsome,” she purrs, leaning in what he thinks is meant to be a seductive manner against the wall. She’s too drunk to pull it off. She reaches out and runs a hand over his chest. “Care for a dance...in the bedroom maybe?” 

Rhys scoffs, brushing off her arm stiffly. “No thanks,” he says shortly, and grabs another drink, slipping away before she can ask again. She stumbles a few steps after him, then gives up. He rolls his eyes. He’s all for letting loose--though Cass and Mor might disagree--but the number of people in here that are seconds away from passing out or vomiting is too high for his taste. He sets off to find Cassian. 

He screens the makeshift dance floor, front lawn, and couches, growing more frustrated with his brother each second when he doesn’t see him anywhere. Another giggling girl and her smashed boyfriend (he thinks?) propose a threesome, and he nearly loses it. He barges into Cassian’s bedroom for peace and quiet, but finds his brother lying across some girl, kissing her neck. When they hear the door open, Cass smiles up at him, unbothered. The girl scrambles out from under him, grabbing her shirt. Thankfully they're both still in their underwear.

“Cassian,” Rhys says, very slowly, “Everyone needs to leave. Now.”

“It’s Friday night!” Cassian protests. “Take that stick out of your ass and let us all have some fun. Go grab another drink.”

Rhys growls. “It’s 2:30 fucking am. Saturday morning, you moron.”

Cassian sighs and sits up. “Fine.” He glances at the girl next to him, who’s watching their exchange wide-eyed. “You can stay, sweetheart,” he drawls.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” she says, slipping on her t-shirt. “I’ll just, leave. My sister’s probably out there waiting for me anyway.” She squeezes Cass’s hand, and slips out, and he stares after her for a moment like a lost puppy. Rhys huffs.

“Let’s _go_ , Cass. Neither of you will care that I stopped you in the morning,” Rhys stalks out into the main room again, and Cassian follows, smoothing out his ruffled shirt. 

He gets up on a dining chair, and cups his hand around his mouth. “Everyone out unless you’re somehow related to me or want to face my wrath,” he yells. “I repeat, get out of my house. Party’s over, folks. Have a good weekend.” People file out, some groaning, some giggling. Rhys pities them for the hangover they’ll have later in the morning. 

As they file out, though, he sees Feyre. He’s startled; he certainly didn’t invite her, but he didn’t know Cassian was so close to her that he would have. She’s holding a paper plate with a slice of pizza on it, seemingly conflicted as to whether she should take it with her or leave it there. Just as he’s about to call out to her, Cassian beats him to it.

“Feyre!” he waves her over. Her eyes dart to the door, like she’s considering making a run for it, but she decides against it, approaching them.

“Fey!” Morrigan cheers, coming out of Cassian’s room dressed in Frozen pajamas. Rhys glares at her. How come his entire family is suddenly friends with her? The same week he confides that she hates him?

“Hey, Mor,” Feyre greets, blushing a little. She looks up at him then, but turns her head away quickly. Great. She’s pretending he doesn’t exist, then. 

“I’m so glad you made it,” Cass tells her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. She looks somewhat uncomfortable, but doesn’t protest. 

“You know me,” she says, laughing with an aura of casualty that doesn’t match her stiff posture. “I don’t turn down free food.”

Rhys takes in her off-white tank top, and fading denim miniskirt, every bit the cheap party outfit that college girls like to wear, except, oddly, the small brown backpack slung on her shoulders. He didn't know people brought backpacks to parties. Now that everyone else is gone, her outfit looks so out of place with his maroon dress shirt and dark jeans, and Mor’s floral blouse and loose white pants. They like to look their best, the Night cousins. He’s once again struck by how terribly skinny she is, her skimpy outfit accentuating her unhealthy weight. He couldn’t imagine what she meant by never turning down free food; she looks like she never wamts to eat at all. His eyes skirt down to her wrists against his will, checking for the bruises, but there’s no trace. Of course not; they were already fading last Friday. He breathes a quick sigh of relief, that there aren’t any fresh ones, though. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from forcing her to tell him who did it if there were more. And if he found out, he couldn’t honestly say he wouldn’t beat up whatever bastard ever laid a hand on her. And if _he_ didn’t, Mor and Cass certainly would. 

“I’ll introduce you to everyone,” Cassian offers finally, giving her a dopey grin. He’s tipsy. Feyre realizes this at the same time he does, and gives Cassian a fond smile. Rhys frowns. 

“This is Rhys, but you probably already knew,” Cassian explains, lifting an arm in his general direction. Feyre’s smile drops a fraction, but she nods. 

“My other brother, Azzy,” Cassian pats Azriel’s chest condescendingly. “He’s a little antisocial,” he whispers loudly. She chuckles.

Az clears his throat, the tips of his ears turning red. “Azriel,” he corrects, holding out a hand for Feyre to shake. “Or Az.” She takes it, smiling up at him. 

“Pleased to meet you, Azriel,” she says softly. Great, she likes him, too. Everyone but Rhys, it seems, is in her good graces.

Az beams at her. Well, he lifts the corners of his mouth slightly. But it’s as good as a beam from Azriel. “Likewise.” 

“Andy, Mor’s girlfriend,” Cassian continues, stringing his other arm around her waist. Andy extracts herself, laughing at his drunk state. 

“Hi, Feyre. Mor’s told me a lot about you,” she says warmly.

Feyre flushes, looking down embarrassedly. Rhys finds it endearing. “Nice to meet you Andy.” Andy wraps her into a quick hug, then calls out to Amren, who emerges from god knows where. 

“This is Amren,” Andy tells Feyre. Feyre looks at the terrifying woman timidly, her stormy blue eyes meeting Amren’s silvery ones. “She’s pre law. I study nursing, and Mor is in Communications. Rhys is studying business economics, Azriel is a CS major, and Cass--well, he just lazes around, mostly.” Cassian protests immediately, and Andy and Feyre share a giggle at his expense. “I’m kidding, he’s in Security Admin, but I’m guessing you knew that already. And Mor told me you two met in her art elective? You’re in Drawing and Painting?”

Feyre nods. Amren dips her chin lightly in acknowledgement, then heads toward the door.

“I’m leaving,” she tells Cassian as she passes him. 

“Bye, Tiny,” he taunts, grunting when she elbows him hard in the ribs. Feyre giggles again, watching them. She’s watching them like Azriel used to watch him and Cassian before their mother took him in, Rhys realizes. Like she’s never seen a true family. His heart aches, but he doesn’t know what to say. So he keeps quiet. Speaking didn’t go well for him last time, anyway, he thinks bitterly. Even after all these years away from home, his father’s nagging voice won’t leave him alone. Learning that Feyre was dyslexic, even as a college student, had meant nothing to Rhys. He still liked her. Wanted to get to know her. But he knew what his father would say about her. _Keep your head down and work, Rhysand. Hard work is the way we become something with our lives. Women like her will only bring you down. She never tried to change the hand life dealt her, and that’s why she’s been left behind today. We only help those who help themselves, Rhys._

That day in the library, he didn’t know what to say, and it made him insecure. Despite all the ways she was flawed, she seemed so far out of his league. He just wanted to get to know her. Wanted her to care about him the way he cared about her. So he spit out that bullshit about her needing him, not realizing until later that he was the one who needed him. And now he’d fucked it up so bad. He was so lost in his mental pity party that he didn’t even notice that they are all settled on Cassian’s couches. Feyre is nearly finished with her pizza, and Andy has grabbed another slice as well. And Rhys is still standing by the dining table like a fool. He shakes off his reverie, and sits down next to Azriel. Andy is asking Feyre about her classes. Rhys tries not to look too desperately interested, but by the smirk on Mor’s face, he doesn’t succeed. Even Az shoots him a pitying glance when Feyre starts describing her newest project. 

He hangs onto her every word, until she glances at the clock over his head, and stops abruptly. “I should go,” she announces, standing up. 

At this, Cassian, who’s half asleep, opens his eyes. “No! Feyre, it’s nearly 4 in the morning. Just stay over, you can head out after catching a couple hours of sleep.” 

She shakes her head stubbornly, grabbing her bag off the couch. “I’ll grab an Uber.”

“Feyre--”

“Bye, guys. Thanks for inviting me, Cassian. I had fun,” she swallows. “Have a good weekend.” She bends down to hug Mor, then slips out the door into the night. 

“She’s a sweetheart,” Andy decides through a yawn, snuggling against her girlfriend. “I like her.”

“Me, too,” Mor says, wrapping her arms around Andy.

Azriel gets up, grabbing the trash on the table as he does. “I’ll head out, too. Gotta get some work done later in the morning.”

“On a Saturday?” Cassian mumbles into the pillow under his face. “Loser.”

Azriel rolls his eyes, and heads toward the door. 

Rhys debates internally for a moment, then stands up too, stretching. He has a video conference in the afternoon. It’s best that he’s home to get ready in time. He opens the door quietly, his heart giving a little flutter at the sight of his brother and cousin sprawled across the couches, looking just like they did when they were kids and Mor would come over to their house for “sleepovers”, only bigger. Cassian’s feet hang off the side of the couch, twisting his back in a way that seems unpleasant to Rhys, but his brother is snoring contentedly, so he just smiles and shakes his head as he slips into the chilly night. 

He looks up at the stars as he walks toward the car, breathing in the clear air. It’s refreshing and nostalgic. His mother used to take Aria and him stargazing when they were little. He takes another long gaze at the sky before opening his door.

“Hey, Ma. Hi Ari,” he whispers to the stars. Then he gets in and starts toward his apartment. 

~oOo~

He’s passing by the storage complex that comes up on the main road a couple hundred feet before his apartment, when he notices two figures against the wall of one of the warehouses. He’s not sure what part of his brain convinces him to slow down, or if his brain didn’t say anything and his legs act of their own accord, but he does. And as he stops next to the curb, he’s suddenly very glad he did, because one of those figures, the one covering the other with their back toward Rhys, is Tamlin Spring. His high school best friend, the bastard whose father killed his mother and baby sister’s death, and now, Rhys’s sworn enemy. 

Eight years ago, Tamlin’s father had--wrongly--accused Rhys’s dad of insider trading. The lawsuit had escalated, and when Rhys’s dad finally came out on top, the CEO of Spring Corps had covertly arranged for a car accident to kill Rhys’s dad on the way to a Christmas formal party. The car he arranged for hit the wrong side, killing his mother and Ari instead. Rhys’s father, devastated, had in turn burnt down the Spring mansion when only Tamlin’s father was home, and he and Tamlin had never spoken to each other the same way again. It infuriated Rhys. His father was harsh, and unforgiving, but his professional life was pristine. Never had his company done a single illegal thing; every individual product was accounted for, every employee compensated generously, every deal made fair and square. The murder was the only dirty act on his father’s record, and Rhys always worried about it, but--he couldn’t say he didn’t understand. Despite their tumultuous love story, Rhys was absolutely certain that if there was one person his father loved wholeheartedly, it was his mother, Milana. And her death ruined him. Murdering her murderer was the only revenge he could expel to make himself feel alright again.

So when he sees Tamlin, standing there and pressing a girl against the wall by her wrists, lips on her neck, he knows he can’t possibly leave her with him. He rolls down the window, ready to yell at him to leave her alone. Rhys hates men who think they can just “take” any woman they want. He _hates_ Tamlin.

As he takes a closer look when the window rolls down, his blood runs cold. He recognizes those long cinnamon colored waves. The tattered denim skirt and skimpy white strappy tank...Feyre. His rage bubbles to the surface. He’s ready to walk up and pull him off. Tamlin might be large, but Rhys knows that if it comes to throwing hands, he can easily beat Tamlin. Cass has made sure of it. He clicks his door’s lock open, not wanting to make any noise, lest he hurts her. He remembers the bruises on Feyre’s wrists, and feels his shoulders rise in irrational tension. He’ll beat that asshole up so hard that he’ll never even look at another woman again.

But, just as he steps out, she lets out a loud moan, her eyes closed.

“Ohh, Tamlin,” it echoes softly around the empty structure behind her. He continues suckling her neck, dropping one arm to lift her legs around his waist, resting a palm on her ass. Rhys stops in his tracks.

“Your place?” she asks, letting out another pleasured groan when Tamlin growls out a yes. Rhys flushes red in anger and embarrassment. Anger at Feyre, even though he knows it’s not right. He barely knows her, she can hook up with whoever she wants. He wishes he could tell her to get the hell away from Tamlin Spring, because he’s a misogynistic, corrupt, violent tool. Because his dad is a murderer. Because he is the owner of a company that does so much shady business that he’s not sure if they’re a tech giant or a drug cartel. 

And shame. Because he was so ready to rip Tamlin away from her that it didn’t even occur to him that it may be consensual.

She _wants_ to go home with Tamlin. That’s why she ran out of Cassian’s place at 4 in the fucking morning. His father’s voice invades his head again, against his will. _I told you she was no good. An illiterate, and a whore--_ He clamps it down. He doesn’t know anything about her. He realizes suddenly where these thoughts are coming from. He’s not just angry at her, he’s _hurt._ It hurts that he slipped up the first time they met, and he cares about her so damn much for some reason that he can’t explain, and now she’s hooking up with the one man he can’t stand. 

He gets back into the car, closing the door as softly as he can and drives away. He thinks they hear him, but he ducks his head, and doesn’t look back the whole way home.

~oOo~

The dining hall bustles with students, some with books spread across their tables, some waving their friends over, others just lounging with their food trays. He’s sitting there with Amren and Az.

“Just took it up with the Velaris Public Leasing Committee,” Amren is telling Azriel.

It’s nearly Thanksgiving break, and they’re going to start working soon. This break, they’re going to head over to the Night Industries HQ and start getting things up and running. Amren, as head of the legal department, has to sort out the property paperwork, so her job comes first. Azriel is rigging up their cybersecurity system and developing an internal communications system. Rhys is supposed to be “overseeing their work”, but he mostly just leaves them alone. Amren doesn’t take well to being bossed around, and Azriels’s work is way beyond Rhys’s skill level. 

Mor and Cass come in together, Mor showing him something on her phone that makes him laugh loudly. Rhys realizes suddenly that his burger must be getting soggy, and decides to stop neglecting it. He picks it up just as Mor reaches him, and plucks it out his hands, taking a large bite. 

Rhys glowers at her. “Mor.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little face, cousin,” she consoles him, patting his cheek in mock affection. “I brought you better food.” She hoists up a large plastic bag, and Rhys perks up despite himself. He’s a sucker for Sevinda’s. It reminds him of his mother’s Illyrian cooking, a skill that he never quite picked up from her. Out of the four of them, only Cassian had a knack for it, and he tended to use his meals as rewards or bribes, whichever suited him. So he went to Sevinda’s. All the time. So much that she started cooking him the mundane, healthy dishes that he missed so much it hurt, instead of the touristy, fancy platters she served to non-natives. He liked to complain about it, but he was grateful for the mother she’d become to him since he was fifteen and lost without his mom, and she knew it. 

He greedily opens the plastic containers, passing everyone their favorites, and hoarding his own. Even Amren, who has no Illyrian roots or background, only took one forced outing to Sevinda’s to fall in love with her food. Even though she refuses to eat out with “them pigs” as a general rule, Rhys has a sneaking suspicion she goes there with her not-boyfriend Varian sometimes. 

Mor smiles at him. “I knew this would cheer you up after your Week of Sadness. Are you still upset about the whole Feyre thing?”

Rhys stops chewing and elbows her hard as Cassian suddenly looks very interested. Mor winces. 

“What Feyre thing?” Cassian says, grinning like a fiend. “Does Rhysand Night have a crush?”

“Oh, he has a major crush,” Mor confirms for the table, nodding sagely, and somehow managing to dodge his elbow at the same time. “And he’s all sad because he said something that ticked her off and she won’t talk to him now.”

“She’s screwing Tamlin!” he says indignantly, before his brain gives his mouth permission to move. He really needs to work on the impulsivity. They all stare. Even Azriel looks caught off guard. “Of course I’m mad about it,” he defends. “You _know_ how I feel about him. Don’t tell me you don’t see how skinny she is. There’s fucking bruises on her wrists,” he lowers his voice at Mor’s warning glance. “The tool’s probably abusing her.”

Mor looks uncharacteristically serious as she regards him. “Rhys,” she says. “Do you have any proof of what you’re saying? Because if it’s true, we can help her, you know that. But if it’s not, Rhys...don’t get ahead of yourself, okay? I know that you really like her, and that you _really_ don’t like him, but if you don’t know anything, then it’s fine, all right? The weight and bruises could mean a hundred other things. And she can screw whoever she wants, don't be a dick.”

Rhys sags. He knows she’s right, but it pains him to admit it. And, he saw it himself, she wanted to go home with Tamlin, whether Rhys likes it or not. Jealousy flares up in him again, a green bitch, clawing at him to yell at her, to yell at Tamlin, to just get them to stop seeing each other. He shoves it down again. Like Mor said, it’s none of his goddamn business who she screws. He’ll leave her alone if it makes him mad. 

Azriel is watching him carefully. His family knows him too well. “Why don’t we go to the gym? We’re both done with our classes,” he suggests. Rhys let’s his wound muscles sag, and sighs in resignation.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he says, pushing his trash toward Mor, who’s collecting everyone’s garbage. He thanks her and slings his bag over his shoulder. 

“Cass?” he asks his brother.

“I’ve got a study group, but I’ll join you two after if you’re still there.”

“We will be,” Az informs him, glancing at Rhys. “See you there, brother.” 

Cassian nods, and offers his arm to Amren as he stands. She shoves him away with surprising strength for a woman less than five feet. He laughs and heads out of the cafeteria with a wave. 

Naturally, just as they’re about to turn into the parking lot, he sees Feyre across their university emblem in the center of the quad. She looks exhausted. Even from a distance, he can see her dark circles and slouching posture. She’s wearing sweatpants that are about three sizes too big on her and the same faded blue sweatshirt from the last time he saw her on campus. Her arms are loaded with several large canvases, and she struggles to navigate through the throngs of students. He doesn’t even realize he’s stopped until Az lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Rhys,” his brother says, low and cool. He wants to ignore his brother, to go straight to her and offer to help, because _how_ can everyone just treat her like she’s invisible? _How_ can they just give her dirty looks when she crashes into them. Of course she can’t see where she’s going, she’s carrying canvases as tall as she is. But just when he’s worked up the will to do it, Tamlin Spring appears by her side. Rhys's face morphs into an instant scowl at the sight. Tamlin takes the canvases from her smoothly, and she smiles at him, looking relieved. 

“Rhys,” his brother says again, firmer this time. And this time, Rhys listens and follows his brother.

He drops his bag in the car, ready to go, but then hears footsteps running up behind him. 

“Rhys!” his heart clenches. Feyre. “Hi,” she greets when he turns. “I was just wondering… I mean I know I said that… but well, we have a paper to write and I was wondering if you could help me?” Her eyes are pleading, and her whole body is wound up in a way that he knows will deflate if he says no. 

He doesn’t care. She can ask the tool if she needs help so bad. She said she didn’t need Rhys anyway. “Sorry,” he tells her, sounding like he cares less than he does, especially when her expression morphs into despair at his refusal. “I’m busy the next few weeks.” 

“It’s due after Thanksgiving, maybe we could meet during break? Please,” she presses.

“I’m going home for break,” he informs her shortly, then gets in the car, not wanting to see the remaining hope draining from her face. He ignores Azriel’s looks the whole way to the gym.

~oOo~

When Cassian joins them in the gym two and a half hours later, the bag Rhys is punching is swinging just as hard as it was when he started.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feyre's POV this time! Hope you all enjoy. I promised some Feysand, but then my mind took me here. Whoops. It'll happen eventually. As a side note just to raise awareness, I lost my uncle to Covid-19 last week. He was a little on the older side--55--but otherwise completely healthy. Just a PSA to PLEASE keep taking this seriously. God knows people aren't where I live. Even if you don't think you or your family members are immunocompromised, it CAN get bad :( Wear a mask, avoid social gatherings, and be smart. I hope everyone's safe and well. Let me know what you think of this! <3

Feyre is tired. A bone weary exhaustion weighs down on her heavily, pressing her a little closer to the ground with each passing day. Some days she doesn’t want to do anything. Others she does, but finds that she can’t come up with a single reason why anything she does matters. 

~oOo~

At eight years old, Feyre watched her mother die on a hospital bed. Back when her family could afford such things. They could afford every treatment under the sun, but none were enough to save Sylvia Archeron from the liver cancer that slowly infiltrated her body without anyone noticing until it was too late. 

Her sisters were devastated. Feyre was not. She was too young to fully understand the changes that her family was going through. The maid was let go. The house got dirtier. Her father started drinking. He was fired from his job. They moved. Again and again. Six different schools over four years. She dropped out unofficially at thirteen. She went to school just a day or two each week, when she had art class, or when Mr. Devlon, a local construction contractor, didn't have work for her. 

Her sisters went to school. They started dating boys who Feyre didn’t know. They only sometimes came home, rarely gave Feyre a second glance, and never asked how their father was doing. Only Feyre knew that their father was a severe alcoholic. She kept buying the stuff for him, just cleaning up his messes, too young and too scared to do much else. The lady at the supermarket told her she was too young for whiskey, so she snuck it from the upperclassmen who would sell bottles behind the park bathroom after school. 

She did it for years: went to art class, ditched class for illegal construction work that earned her nearly a minimum wage by the hour, bought her father a bottle or two, got back home and gave them to him if he was awake, or cleaned up and tucked him in if he was passed out. Some nights when he was especially inebriated, he would scream and throw bottles at her.

“Ungrateful bitch,” he would rasp. “Why did you leave me?” She wasn’t sure who he was talking about. Maybe Nesta or Elain. Maybe her mother. Maybe her. She would stand there, waiting and praying his aim would remain poor enough in his intoxicated state that he wouldn’t hit her. Then when he finally passed out, she’d clean it up. 

She cried herself to sleep those nights. Those were the nights when she was sure things couldn’t get any worse. Sometimes she wished she could be more like Nesta or Elain. Just walk out the door and forget her bastard of a father. She hated him. It was his job to clean up his act and make sure they didn’t starve. Not drink himself half to death each night, slurring at her to bring him another. Still, she couldn’t just leave him. He’d die.

The closer she got to eighteen, though, the more depressed she grew. How long would she keep doing this? Nesta was gone, attending law school at Yale on a merit-based scholarship, last Feyre heard, and Elain had just graduated from Ellywe University with a degree in botany, sponsored by some local elderly woman with Alzheimer’s and a lot of money who she had moved in with to take care of. Now she was running her own flower shop, wildly successful, thanks to the old woman’s will. She had no family, so when she passed, she left a good sum of money for Elain. Elain sent a little to Feyre, imploring her to go to college, too.

But Feyre was not smart like Nesta, and the person she was stuck babysitting did not have money, like the woman Elain had cared for. Still, she took a chance, and applied to Prythian. Far enough that she wouldn’t feel the urge to come back every day to see him, but still in state, and thereby cheaper--if she got in, of course. But she did. And then she had to think fast. She deposited her father in a local charity rehab center, where they kept him and treated him for just thirty dollars a month, covering the rest with donations from people she was endlessly thankful for. Then she withdrew the money in her father’s and her banks. Exactly ninety-three dollars combined. She had an ID and bus pass made, and went to see her counselor at Prythian to ask how the scholarship worked. 

The man had smiled at her in a way that made her feel like she should have already known the answers to her questions. His office reeked of pot, and his eyes didn’t leave her chest for more than a couple seconds at a time. She hated him. 

“Tuition and materials,” was all he offered her. “Keep your grades up, and we’ll keep providing anything you need in class. Food and housing are your responsibility. You may live on or off campus. And since today’s the last day to make your decision,” he drifted off, giving her a reproachful frown. “What will it be?”

“Umm, what will what be?” Feyre asked him, wrapping the old cardigan she found in Nesta’s closest tighter around her front. 

He sighed, exasperated. “Your decision, Miss Archeron. Do you accept our offer? And will you be staying on or off campus? Campus housing and food with a traditional dorm will be around 10,000 dollars a year, not counting any additional food expenses you make.”

Feyre couldn’t do the math quick enough under his leering gaze, but it seemed like a lot of money, so she made the decision quickly. “Yes. I’ll attend, thank you so much Sir. And I’ll live somewhere off campus.”

~oOo~

Days like today, she regrets her choice. She drops her bag to the floor, eyeing it critically. It’s almost ripped from the abuse she puts it though. She’ll need a new one soon. But she’s lost her job at the cafe, thanks to her stupidity. She still has a 68 percent in her English class, and Rhysand won’t help. Her fault. Her fingers are blue from the cold seeping through the open squares on the walls of the warehouse she lives in. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment. She needs money, but no one will hire her, because she’s too broke to afford nice clothes. She looks homeless. Which, to be fair, she is. And she’s tired. So fucking tired. Every part of her body aches. She wants it to stop.

Feyre pulls out her cracked phone. She shouldn’t have thrown it across the warehouse last week. Her fingers hover over Mor’s number, one of her seven contacts, along with Nesta, Elain, Alis, Lucien, Cassian, and Rhys. The richest kid at school. Just her luck that her only two friends would be related to him. She considers calling her for a moment. 

_“I love you, Fey. We’re gonna be besssst friends,” her new friend had sighed, a little tipsy from their dinnertime drinks. Then she turned to Feyre, hazel eyes unusually somber. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”_

_“Yeah, Mor,” Feyre had agreed easily._

Now she isn’t so sure. Her sisters’ voices join in, overpowering the nagging part of her that has convinced her she needs help. 

_Don’t bother others with your problems._ Elain. _You’ll figure it out._

 _It’s your own fault you’re here. Stop bitching about it._ Nesta. 

Then her father. 

_Why did you leave me? I always told you you were nothing, Feyre._

She puts her phone down. Hunger gnaws at her gut. Two more hours, she reminds herself. Just two more hours and then you can have something to eat. 

Five weeks ago at Target, she let it slip how hard job hunting was getting, and Lucien piped up, telling her of a friend of his who was looking to hire. Experience didn’t matter. It was fucking perfect. The pay wasn’t great, and the hours were weird, but it worked. All she had to do was package and load crates to be shipped off at a warehouse similar to her own. It was easy. And they served them a boxed meal at midnight. A shitty meal, but food nonetheless. A soggy sandwich and bag of potato chips. Or a beef wrap and banana. Many of the people working refused it, but never Feyre. Some days, it was all she ate.

The first time she met Tamlin, the owner, she didn’t like him. But he was friends with Lucien, and that was enough for her. He also hired after just a five minute conversation, which definitely helped. Lucien was the first person she met in Prythian who gave her a second glance. She was apprehensive at first, but he proved himself a decent companion. They argued a lot, but it was fine by her. He told her when there was a job opening at Target, and showed her around the city on a day off once. He was also a part-time tattoo artist, and gave her a discount on her first tattoo. She loved it. It was a tribal sleeve on her forearm that she’d seen on the storefront. She was still saving up for the second. He even said he might let her do part of it herself. 

The more she saw of Tamlin, though, the more he grew on her. He wasn’t exactly a gentleman, but he wasn’t a complete asshole either, and that was pretty much all she could ask for. After an early Saturday morning shift three weeks ago that he’d come to oversee, he asked her on an informal date. Surprised, she had agreed. It was a chilling morning, nearly freezing, and she figured if he ended up taking her home, she’d at least be warmer than in the warehouse. She was. He was rough with her, gripping her wrists hard enough to leave bruises, ripping off her skirt without asking, but it was worth it. He fed her in the morning, and kissed her softly after, murmuring that she was beautiful. 

He’d come a couple of times since then, asking her each time if she was free after. She almost always said yes. 

The weeks had flown by. She was thankful for the job, but it was draining. She’d been working at Target as well as the warehouse now, getting four hours of sleep a night. And on top of the mountain of classwork she’d been desperately struggling to stay on top of, she’d been looking for a gallery that would display her art. Professor Holden, her art professor had told her it was good enough. But she was starting to doubt it after the mile long string of rejections. It was disheartening. She had nearly four hundred dollars in the bank account. Not nearly enough to rent an apartment. Not even a shitty one--not even a shitty one with roommates. She knew she needed one soon, though. It was only a matter of time before someone leased this warehouse, or at least discovered it. They’d make her leave instantly. 

She tries to sleep on the dirty mass of folded sheets she’s picked up from the discard pile at the laundromat, but the ground is cold below her, and a bump on the ground digs into her back uncomfortably. To top it off, her stomach is growling so hard she’s sure anyone within a mile can hear, and her mind is spinning so fast, she can’t bring herself to close her eyes. She gets up with a grunt. She really needs food. She peeks in her backpack, but finds only half of a granola bar. She eats it, then zips up the bag, and hoists in onto her shoulder. There really isn’t anywhere to go, but she needs to pass the time for an hour until she has to be at the warehouse. 

She takes this bag with her everywhere. It’s an old one of Elain’s, but she loves it. And it fits everything. She puts almost everything she owns into it--all the things she can’t afford to lose if someone finds the warehouse and mugs her. Or, more likely, tosses it all out. She double checks for her bus pass, ID, school papers, the once-pristine set of paints and brushes, a gift from her father that are now nearly unusable, her watercolor tablet, and the fifty dollars she carries with her at all times. After a moment of deliberation, she throws in her toiletries--really just a toothbrush and paste--a small towel, and a t- shirt and shorts. You never know.

She walks out, taking another precursory glance at her corner of the building, the familiar wave of paranoia that washes over her every time she leaves, striking again. 

She swallows nervously, then heads out, being careful that no one sees. She decides to take the bus to Velaris. It’s a small village-type cluster of stores and businesses that she’s grown to love. They’re almost all run by locals, and the mix of art galleries, small restaurants, boutiques, and outdoor areas with couples strolling through and children chasing each other can usually make her smile.

It’s a short drive, and the stop is announced before she even has the time to get lost in her thoughts. She gets off, deciding to head toward the boutiques. She may not be able to afford any new clothing, but it never hurts to window shop. 

She walks around aimlessly, stopping to admire some of the embroidered work at an Illyrian store called “City of Dreams”. She reaches out a hand tentatively to touch the glass covering a midnight blue gown that looks like something that should belong to royalty. It’s a long, slender dress, with chiffon straps and a low sweetheart neckline. Her mouth falls open slightly when she sees the bottom, layers of the airy material, with silver speckling through it like stars. It grows darker going down, the ombre fading into darker blue, then black. Or perhaps a shade of blue so dark, she can’t tell from outside. She moves to enter the store, then looks down at her own raggedy outfit: a pair of faded and paint-stained jeans, and a windbreaker that does nothing to keep out the cold. She doesn’t belong in a store like this.

She’s just about to leave, when a kindly woman approaches her from inside. 

“Oh, my dear! An artist,” she smiles fondly at Feyre. For a moment Feyre wonders if she’s even talking to her, but then the woman beckons her in. She’s wearing a black apron over a stylish flowery tunic and jeans. The simplicity makes Feyre relax a little. Various strings stick out from her pocket, and a name tag that reads ZARA is pinned over her left breast. 

“Come in, dear,” the woman said, taking in Feyre’s jeans. “You paint?”

Feyre nods numbly, stepping in. She feels like a fish out of water amongst the elegantly dressed women walking around the store, pointing out various dresses to their companions. 

“That’s wonderful,” she gushes. “You have to tell me what you think. I’ve made many of these myself. I could tell you have an eye for beauty just by the way you were looking at the blue piece we’ve displayed.”

Feyre feels her cheeks grow warm at the praise. “I think it’s beautiful ma’am,” she whispers honestly. 

She waves a hand. "Please, call me Zara. And you think it's beautiful, huh? Well, then, I suppose you must try it on! It was made for a beautiful girl like you,” the woman says, gesturing to Feyre’s figure. Feyre blushes down to the tips of her toes. 

“Oh, no, please. I was just looking around, I don’t think--” Feyre tries to deter her.

“Nonsense, love. I insist. Dressing rooms are in the back.” To Feyre’s horror, the woman lifts the mannequin right off the display platform, carrying it behind the counter, and slinging off the dress. She quickly replaces it with a fiery red-black piece that comes down to the knee. 

She holds it out. “Go try it on, dear. Call out if you need anything.”

Feyre shakes her head, but the woman practically shoves it into her hands, bouncing with excitement. “My, my. You’ll look like a doll!”

Feyre resigns, taking it to the back, wondering how she’s going to decline it. A knot of worry starts roiling in her stomach, twisting around to the point that she feels sick. Should she try it on and say she didn’t like it? Be honest, and tell the kind woman she can’t afford it? Hide in the dressing room until the thirty minutes she still has are over, and then run out and say she’s late for work?

She shuts herself into a fitting room and sits down on the small bench, allowing herself another few breaths to calm her panic. Then she gets up, slowly, deciding to try on the dress. The woman had been so pleased with the thought, that she didn’t want to let her down completely. So she shrugs off her clothes, trying not to notice the way her ribs are poking out painfully in the full length mirror. Goosebumps cover her flesh instantly, despite the warmth of the store--at least compared to outside. Feyre pulls on the dress, and immediately wants to take it off. It’s so perfect. She doesn’t remember the last time she wore something this nice--she’s not sure she ever has. It flatters even her too thin body, hugging her breasts in a way that makes her chest fuller. The folds fall to the floor. Night incarnate. She reaches her hands back to close the clasp, growling in frustration when they snap out of her reach over and over again.

Feyre tries for another few moments, then drops her arms, inhaling deeply. She cracks open the door. 

“Umm…Miss Zara?” she calls hesitantly, then closes the door quickly. She doesn’t really want to give everyone a view of herself though the half open dress. There’s a small rustle of conversation at the counter, and then she hears footsteps approaching. Zara knocks at the door, and Feyre opens it carefully, her eyes widening immensely when she finds Rhysand standing there instead. 

“Are you _stalking_ me?” she hisses.

“Feyre?” he asks incredulously at the same time. “No!” he defends. “I just...come here sometimes.”

“What, for dress shopping?” she deadpans, forgetting momentarily that her entire back is on full display in the mirror behind her.

“It’s not like that,” he says, completely flustered for the first time since she’s met him. He rubs the back of his neck, looking away from her. “This store used to be my mom’s. She always loved making clothes. You know, before she died? Anyway, Zara took it over, but I kind of help out when I can. Keep it running, and stock shelves when I’m free since she has arthritis. Stuff like that.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Feyre whispers, feeling more than a little insensitive.

“Yeah, well,” he gestures to the dress. “I can help with the clasp, if you want.”

Her cheeks warm. “Oh!” she says again, cursing herself for sounding so stupid. “Uh, sure,” she agrees, turning around awkwardly. He clasps it quickly, and stands there another moment. 

“It looks good on you,” he tells her, then looks instantly embarrassed by the remark.

“Thanks,” she says. She kind of wants to die. 

“Wow, _juniya_! Just like a little fairy.” Zara swoops in, saving them both from further mortification. Rhysand slips away. “Sorry, my dear. Just had to help another customer. I think it is just perfect! Let’s get it checked out, yes?”

The blind panic reappears, and she steps back, shaking her head. 

“Are you alright, my dear? You look pale” Zara questions, eyebrows pinched together in concern. 

Feyre gulps, trying to grab at an excuse. Anything. She looks at the clock on the store wall. She still has ten minutes until she has to leave. It’s long enough to purchase something. She doesn’t want to lie to Zara. 

“I’m sorry, I--How much is it?” she asks.

Zara looks relieved. “Eighteen dollars, love.” Feyre has to work to keep her jaw from falling. She wonders briefly if maybe she meant to say eighty, but she’s sure that Zara said eighteen. 

“Eighteen?” she repeats, still a little dazed. This gown couldn’t be worth less than a hundred dollars. 

“Yes,” the small woman smiles proudly. “We have very generous sponsors. It allows us to sell the dresses very cheap. All young women can buy.” 

Sponsors, Feyre echoes in her head. Like Rhys. ‘I help out when I can. Keep it running’, he had said. 

Feyre hesitates again. Even if she buys it, when would she ever wear it? She decides she doesn’t care. She’ll never find a better deal. “Thank you, Miss Zara,” she breathes out. 

“Of course, dear. No one is better for this dress. Come bring it to the counter.” She strides away. Feyre quickly dresses in the jacket and jeans she came in, taking it to checkout and stuffing the shiny plastic bag into her backpack, thanking the older woman profusely, despite her protests. She checks the clock. 8:45. Fifteen minutes left until her shift starts. Feyre rushes to the bus stop and just catches the next bus heading toward the packaging facility. 

~oOo~

It’s colder than she thought it would be when she arrives. Her windbreaker doesn’t do much to stop the icy breeze, and she’s shaking from the cold, even in the five minutes it takes to walk from the bus stop to the back entrance. Tamlin is here today, and so is Alis, the only girl working here who talks to her. On Feyre’s first day, Tamlin had told Alis to show her the ropes. Feyre wouldn’t exactly consider them friends, but as far as colleagues go, Alis isn’t terrible. She’s sweet, probably in her early thirties, raising money for her nephews after her sister lost her husband and her leg in a fire. Alis is already working in the far corner. Feyre walks up to a man they call Mr. Attor to get her assignment of the day, hoping it’s near Alis. 

Before she can get there, though, a hand wraps around her waist, pulling her into a hard chest. She breathes in the lemongrass scent. Tamlin. He buries his face into her neck, and she stiffens, a little uncomfortable with the PDA. 

“Feyre,” he kisses her shoulder, then spins her around to face him. 

“Hey, Tam,” she greets. Her stomach growls softly. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to hear it. 

“Can I take you home after?” he asks, hands creeping up her sides. Feyre considers her half-frozen toes, and shriveled stomach. She hates October. But who is she to decline warmth and breakfast?

“Yeah,” she concedes, placing her hands on his shoulders. He smiles and kisses her forehead. “You’re in the back with Alis and Cecil,” he tells her, patting her bottom lightly as she goes. She manages not to scowl at the condescending gesture. At least she’s with Alis. And she doesn’t have to deal with Mr. Attor. The sneering man towers over her. She can’t stand his leering gaze and stale breath. 

She greets Alis and Cecil, a graduate student a few years older than her, and then gets to work, loading the packages into the crates with brutal efficiency, not stopping until they bring out the food. Turkey sandwiches today. 

~oOo~

Their shift is almost over when Tamlin comes up to her, kissing her cheek from behind. She sees Cecil and Alis exchange glances, and can’t help but feel a little angry at Tamlin. She doesn’t need anyone thinking she got her promotion to section manager by sleeping with him. Even if she might have. 

“Meet me at the side gate outside after,” he tells her, kissing her softly on the lips. “I can’t wait to take you to bed,” he whispers. She just nods mutely, watching him head off toward the storage room before she turns back to finish loading the last few cartons. 

There’s silence for a little while after, until Alis speaks up finally. 

“Feyre,” she ventures. “You’re sleeping with him?”

“Yes, and?” Feyre snaps, with more attitude than was probably necessary. Alis and Cecil share another glance, which annoys Feyre even more. 

“Nothing, I just didn’t think someone like him would be your type. You’re...nice,” Alis explains. 

Feyre feels her hackles rising, using argument as a shield like she always does. “What’s it to you who I have sex with?” 

Alis holds up her hands in defense, but it’s Cecil who speaks up this time. “You have no idea what’s in these boxes, do you? You’ve never, like, opened one to take a peek?”

“You’re the one who told me not to!” Feyre defends, not even sure why it matters.

"Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd listen," Cecil says, lifting a shoulder. They share yet another nervous look with each other. Feyre _hates_ being left out of the conversation. “What the fuck is your problem? Just tell me if it matters, and if it doesn’t, then leave me alone!”

Cecil places another package into his crate. “Ecstasy,” he mutters. Tosses another. “More ecstasy.” Another. “And more.”

Alis joins in, filling the crate in front of her. “This one’s heroin.”

Feyre feels her face dropping, a horror that she can’t quell rising inside of her. She needs to throw up. 

“I don’t know what Tamlin told you, Feyre,” Cecil tells her gently. “But we’re shipping drugs here.”


End file.
